I'm Listening
by Love Lost Contest
Summary: AH - M/M Slash: Emmett finds his way through hard times with the help of friends. Can his broken heart mend and find love again, or will he forever be a shoulder for others to cry on?


**Title: I'm Listening**

**Characters: Emmett/Jacob**

**Rating: M**

**Word Count: 4668**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters but this story is all mine.**

To see all entries in the "Love Lost" Contest, please visit the profile: .net/u/2458839/Love_Lost_Contest

Warning: This story alludes to loss and grief. Also, it is a slash/love story.

Love is love, baby.

I'm Listening.

"My name is Emmett. I'm listening."

We start every call the same way at the helpline. Every single one. No matter what time our shift starts, no matter how shitty our own days may have been, and no matter who is on the end of the line. We're trained to tell the caller that we're listening; then we listen. We listen if they cry, we listen if they shout, and we listen as their rage washes over us, if that's what they need. We start with listening. It's all we can do.

I've listened for the last six months, and now I don't think I'll ever stop.

When the calls come in I forget myself for a while. I forget how out of place I used to feel here, my big body wedged into a cubicle built for smaller frames. I forget how I used to be. I just let the calls ebb and flow around me, and I listen to the voices of strangers. I do the best that I can. But the calls that stay with me, the ones that keep me up at night wondering, are the calls that drip with silence.

I've been taught that when we listen, we're giving a gift. It took me a while to accept that, but it's true. When the caller cries or sobs or even fucking wails, we give them the gift of purpose. They're not sitting alone, drenched in misery; they're reaching out and sharing. For some that's not enough, but for most it is, and if it works like it did for me, it's so fucking cool.

The silent callers though, they're different and so much harder to manage than the rest. They don't share, so it's hard to listen. The temptation is to fill their sad silences, but that doesn't help. I struggle with the silence, I really do, because I was a silent caller once myself.

Knowing how I felt then, so far beyond sad that I can't even fucking explain, makes me worry for the quiet callers. Really worry. When misery steals your voice away and leaves you mute instead, when you need to say "help me" or "I'm sinking" but can only hitch a breath, you're in too deep. Isolation and seclusion can pull you down before you know it, like hidden currents and it's too easy to drown.

That heartbreak undertow is a fucking bitch.

I get a silent call nearly every time I work a shift at the helpline. I cover Wednesdays from 7 to 12 and Saturdays from 12 to 7 during a standard week, and I cover for my colleagues too, when I can. It was easier in a way, once I got fired. My time was my own, so filling it with something that might save a life was an easy choice to make. It kept me setting my alarm, preparing my lunches and folding my laundry. I'm needed at the hotline, even when living seems like an exercise in futility, which, until recently, it still sometimes did.

The difficulty with silent callers is that you can't judge their tone and so adjust your own; and tone is so important.

I know that I called at the same time every day for weeks before speaking. Eventually, I worked out which voice I could cope with, and I figured out when Carlisle's shift began. I tried to time my calls to listen to him, but I never talked. I had nothing worthwhile to say back then.

It took time, but one day, he answered, told me he was listening, and I replied. It was his tone that I connected with, and now that I know him well, I realize how lucky I was then. I had called for weeks and heard different voices-all calm, all measured, but his was kind. He was always kind, and it was warmth that I'd been lacking since I couldn't tell my folks. His kindness touched me in a way that made my breath catch and my eyes brim, and although I felt soaked with sadness, I didn't feel so fucking hopeless. Not while he spoke, anyway.

He said, "I'm listening," and I said, "Please don't stop talking," and he didn't stop. Not once. He told me that I was in control; I could stop him at any time. He repeated that his name was Carlisle and made it sound like a warm towel I could wrap myself up in. He said he would stay on the line until I was ready to stop him, it didn't matter how long that took. He was there for me. Then he told me he could call me back if I needed him to; I just had to say the word. He'd talk until I was ready, and if I wasn't ready, it didn't matter, just as long as I knew I could call back.

He paused momentarily that first time, and I felt sheer panic, afraid that we'd been disconnected, but then I heard his breathing. He started again, and I was okay. Carlisle told me about the helpline, told me who was in the office with him. He explained that he wasn't there every day but emphasized that there was always someone available.

All this I already knew, but the sound of _his_ voice lulled me, calmed me, helped me to rest as I lay alone in my too big bed, muscles aching after trying to run my sadness away. My body screamed for rest, but my brain would never stop. When I hadn't spoken to another soul for days, Carlisle's voice, his so-fucking-kind voice, helped me get to sleep.

He told me how long he'd manned the lines, and how he didn't know how I felt, or what was on my mind; he didn't bullshit me at all. He just told me that when I was ready, he'd listen. I wanted to talk to him so badly, but I couldn't. I wanted to reach the shore, but I'd swum out too far, and I was so tired. So fucking tired. I might look strong on the outside, but his voice let me be weak, and when he told me that was cool, I let myself believe.

After weeks of silence, it took time for my words to come, and looking back I admire his patience. Now that I'm part of the team, when I take silent calls, I almost always feel anxiety rise in me like storm water rising up against a dam. I wonder if the caller is in a really bad place right that minute, and I feel responsibility like an anchor pulling me down. But then I think about what Carlisle did for me, and I try my best.

I try to sound kind.

I used to count my blessings during every call with Carlisle. I tried to think of something new to be thankful for, and sometimes I didn't lie. I was thankful for my family, who loved me even though I wouldn't let them know me fully. I was thankful to my ex-boss for keeping me on the payroll far longer than I deserved. I was so grateful to Jasper. Fuck, what a friend he'd been. And now, if I had to list my blessings, Carlisle's name would be at the top.

But lately- and it's only been for the shortest time - lately I'm grateful Peter left me.

Words I never thought I'd say.

We met when we were kids, and we both knew, in that subconscious way that defies definition, that we were the same. You know what I mean? We were both athletic, both drawn to conversation rather than debate, both loved to laugh at stupid shit. We liked each other more than I thought we should.

My dad thought a lot of Peter and was pleased that we were friends, but he was old school. I thought it would kill him if he knew the truth about the way I was. He had no time for emotion, no time for expressing love, and that just made me crave his more, I guess. I didn't blame him; he couldn't help the way he was raised any more than I could, but it sure made things hard.

High school was a drag: having to date but not wanting to, wanting Peter instead but never daring to connect. I threw myself into sports - at least that was something I could do right when everything else about me was so wrong.

It was easier for me once we went to different colleges; I didn't have to see Peter wanting me, or feel my dad watching me. But when we met up every summer, it was like watching raindrops merge on a window pane: we moved fluidly back together. We were drawn to each other, always.

We shared an apartment in Seattle after graduation, and it was a novelty at first; we were good friends, old friends.

We didn't become lovers until Peter told me he was leaving for the first time. I didn't realize how much he needed the things I secretly wanted. He gave me all the love he had in him, and we were so happy at home. So fucking happy. Peter showed me how much love I had to give, I rushed through every day and I couldn't wait to get home to him.

We were younger then, but I think I started teaching Peter how to leave me from the start.

Every time he tried to help me live like him - openly and without fear of judgment - I shut him down. Every time he opened himself up to meeting my friends, I cancelled at the last minute. And once, just one time was all it took, once I saw him across a crowded restaurant. I sat with my parents, who were in the city for a visit, and I watched the condensation form on my glass rather than meet his eyes. I felt like such a shit.

I kept our love at home. I hid us from our families, I denied us to my friends, and at work I was shy and single, according to the gossips.

I would have left me too.

When I think of Peter now, it still hurts in that deep way that makes my breath huff and my heart ache, but it happens much less often these days. Now, instead of despair and deep, deep shame, I just feel regret. I did this to myself.

Carlisle said forgiveness takes time. He wasn't wrong, but what it really took to make the grief finally shift was meeting Jacob.

When I had so much lonely time to fill, I liked to swim. It kept me active in a way that helped me fall asleep more easily at night, and I didn't have to deal with conversation. The pool was rarely busy when I swam, and the lap, lap, lapping of the water against the poolside was enough noise for me.

But Jacob fills up quiet spaces as if silence is the enemy. He attacks and consumes angst, and he has no time for dwelling. The first time I met him I knew he'd never call a helpline.

He saw me swimming. Later he said that he watched me swim the week before, and he asked around, but nobody knew me. I wasn't part of the scene then. No fucking way - far from it. He made a point to keep an eye out for me, and, now that I know him well, I can see that resistance would have been futile. He was relentless. He's a force of nature; a smiling force for good.

But, I wasn't smiling the first time I saw him. Fuck no. He jumped just ahead of me into the water, and man, I couldn't stop. I plowed right into him, and that shit hurt. We both twisted and tumbled together, a thrashing mess of strong arms and long legs. All I could do was put my hands flat against his chest and push him away. Why he held onto my arms, I couldn't tell you. Not then, anyway.

He told me, much later, that he waited until I was the only one in the water.

I love that. I love that he waited.

Then, I wasn't ready to be nearly naked, in public, with my arms and legs around a man, and with a man's arms and legs around me. I don't have that issue any more.

He held onto me, and we both yelled. I was pissed, I had no idea what had happened. I didn't notice that we were alone. He told me to calm the fuck down, it had been an accident, and, anyway, he had a cramp now. I couldn't let him go, he said; he couldn't swim with a cramp. He was convincing. He made a really sad face, then he let go of my arms and sank. Man, he was crafty.

I should have known when he smiled at me. Smiling underwater isn't a natural thing to do. I think I must have made a face at his wide smile because he laughed, and that was a fucking stupid thing to do. He choked and gulped as I pulled him up. I held him, and as he swung his arm around my shoulder, he seemed far too pleased with himself for someone in pain. He made it hard to get to the poolside.

Jacob didn't make anything easy for me then, yet he makes _everything _easier for me now. I don't know how he does it. If I knew how that shit worked I'd tell all my callers, even the silent ones.

Every time we got close to the side of the pool, he'd yelp and stop, hanging onto me tightly while he rubbed at his leg. He managed to put his hands nearly everywhere on me, and at the time I just thought he was a dick. He seemed like one clumsy fucker to me, with no concept of personal space or appropriate boundaries.

Considering the pain he was in, he was all grace and ease when he climbed out. That's when I knew he was trouble.

When he turned around and pushed up against the side of the pool, every single muscle in his back bunched and flexed. His back was incredible. Beautiful-I'd never seen anything like it. But his ass, man, his ass was right in front of my face for a long, long time. He held himself there, half in, half out of the water, and that shit takes strength. His swimming shorts were a second skin, and for a minute I forgot how to swim.

Then he was out of the pool, and I swam away.

Later that evening, Carlisle said I seemed distracted when we grabbed a coffee together in the helpline break room. He asked if I'd met someone, and it was like he punched me. I felt the grief of losing Peter wash over me again, something that had been happening less and less often.

Now that time has passed I can reflect, I can see the process clearly. But then, I felt that looking at Jacob's ass, looking at his back and wanting to touch it, just wanting to run my fingers slowly, slowly, slowly down that flawless, golden skin 'til they dipped into the cleft below, was all wrong. I was betraying my partner.

That's when I knew. Finally, more than a year after Peter left, I knew it was over, and I cried like a fucking baby. I couldn't stop, and Carlisle called his wife to come and take me home. I didn't even know he was married.

For all the time he spent listening to me, first as an advisor, then as a co-volunteer, I'd never asked him about himself. I felt so fucking selfish. Even when he offered me a spot on the helpline team, I'd held myself apart. I thought about Peter, and the way I'd kept us hidden, too, and I leaked tears all the way home, saying sorry, sorry, sorry, but I couldn't stop.

I took the week off from working the phones. I called Carlisle every day, and I ran instead of going swimming. My dreams were full of coming home again to find Peter's stuff gone, half my life missing, all the breath knocked out of my body. I'd wake in the night and gasp, turning to him, then I'd sob silently again at his smooth pillow and untouched pajamas. I'm a big man, a strong dude, but I couldn't carry the guilt. I was so fucking lonely.

I broke my heart every night for a week, and it was about fucking time. Then I told my secret to my parents, but they already knew. They already fucking knew. I went through it all over again, but this time I was really angry. I was beyond pissed at myself.

I saw Peter everywhere, just like when he first left. I'd run and see him just ahead, but I could never catch up. I'd be at the store buying food I would forget to eat, and I'd think I could see him looking at produce. I was so fucking happy to see him one more time. Just once would have meant everything to me. Just to see him, not to touch him. Although, I would if I could. I'd touch him and hold him and kiss him, even in public. Especially in public. If I could.

I'd wish so hard my eyes would water.

I saw his shadow in the shower as I brushed my teeth and my cock twitched with latent memory. I missed him so much. So fucking much.

I thought I had been dealing with it, I thought I'd been getting on with life. And I'd been all right, I'd been doing well. Really, I'd been doing okay all year. So what if I didn't have a job and my savings were nearly gone? So what if I never called our friends, or answered their e-mails? What did it matter if I couldn't read a page of a book, or cancel his magazine subscriptions? I'd been doing okay.

That's when Carlisle gave me the talk.

He talked about the stages, and, although I do this shit at least twice a week with complete and utterly desperate strangers, it was like the first time I'd heard it clearly. He took me through each stage of grief, and I saw myself sinking in some and treading water in others. He talked about the nasty fucking barb, the spike on the end of the hook, that grieving for someone who is still living hooked into our souls, and he wasn't wrong. You can cut the hook out, but man, that barb is a bitch to remove.

He talked to me about the future, and he helped me make a plan. The first part was eating and setting the alarm. He helped me write a letter to Peter full of my apologies and love, but Peter sent it back. Eating and setting the alarm took a while to master after that. Carlisle made me promise to call him every night if I needed to, and I did. Sometimes silently, but I did.

Carlisle helped me find a new job, and that meant I had to dress, and eat, and converse as if I were normal. That helped. Drinks after work and softball on Saturdays helped too, and as the second summer without Peter passed, I started to relax.

I started swimming again when the rain came in the fall. I didn't think about Jacob's ass much when I swam; I saved that for the shower at home. I'd lean against the shower wall and think about his beautiful fucking back as I stroked my dick slowly. I'd grip and pull my balls as I thought about that ass. I imagined it wet, naked, and ready, my white hands stark against his burnished skin. I'd pant and huff as I moved, and pulled, and pushed, until I saw his underwater smile in my mind. Then I'd come, hot and hard, against the tile, trying not to think of all the times I'd fucked Peter in the same spot.

When I met Jacob for the second time, I was just getting out of the pool. It was nearly Christmas, and my head was full of all the gifts left to buy. I was thinking about Esme and how much I loved her and her husband. I'd been thinking about Jasper and about how much I owed him for always being there, even when I was puking drunk and obnoxious. I was thinking about my friends, wondering how to show them how much they were appreciated. How do you put that shit into a box with a bow? They pulled me up from the bottom. I'd been drowning for so long, and they had saved me. Carlisle alone had saved me twice.

I saw Jacob. He gave me his underwater smile, all huge and warm, and I knew. It was that quick. I saw him, and I knew.

He dived in as I stood dripping and panting at the side of the pool. He swam to the middle, turned and looked for me, then smiled again and sank. I must have saved him fifteen times that afternoon. He had to save me twice when I laughed so hard I choked. We were asked to leave, and my face ached for the rest of the night; I'd smiled more in two hours than I had in two years. I felt like myself.

I didn't touch myself in the shower that night, I called him when I was in bed later and touched myself then instead. He talked me through it, and I had no idea how hot that shit could be. I had to stop him for a minute while I put Peter's pajamas away, but I got right back into it with hardly any trouble. Hardly any at all.

Jake told me that he was thinking about my back, and I laughed. I was thinking about his, too. He named every muscle group that he admired, and that shit was also hot, especially in Latin. He talked to me about being a sports-physio, and he explained the difference between therapeutic touch and normal touch. I wished he were with me to show me the difference. I really did. He could therapeutically touch my dick, I wouldn't mind. He talked to me about his dick and that was the hottest shit so far. He told me that he was so very hard for me, so I told him to touch his finger to his slit, and to lick what he found there. His growl made me hot all over. He made me melt.

He told me that he thought about me all the time and I just groaned; I felt the same.

He laughed about getting in my way that first time at the pool. He said he couldn't take his hands off me, and he wanted my big hands on him, all over him. Everywhere. I told him I could do that. Then I told him that I was nearly there, was he? Was he? Jacob told me to close my eyes, and I did. He told me to imagine my jizz all over his back, and I could. Fuck. I could see it. He sighed out my name as I groaned out his, and he panted for ages. I think he slept for a while, but I didn't mind listening. Listening is what I do best now. I laughed when he snored, and he woke up again then, happy I was still on the line. We talked until late, and I forgot to call Carlisle.

Jake came with me to the Christmas party at work, and that was odd but not uncomfortable. He held my hand a lot, and I didn't have any choice in the matter. He was nervous and I wanted him to feel relaxed with my colleagues and friends, so I put my arm around him and was proud to introduce him. They all loved him. What's not to love?

I only felt sad for a minute, remembering Peter's sighs as he left for so many parties on his own. I'd learned my lesson; it had just taken some time. I'm not a fast learner, it seems.

Jake says I just need practice. He says that loving openly is a long game, and you have to warm up first. He helps me stretch and loosen up by laughing at my jokes, even when they're terrible, and by making me a sandwich when I go to work at the helpline. He tells me that it's all in the technique, and that the more I practice being proud, the easier it will be. And I am proud. I'm so fucking proud of this man who pulled me clear when I didn't know that I was sinking deeper. I couldn't be prouder. He tells me that loving isn't a sport you can play on your own, and that the more people are on your team, the better. And I get it, I do. So I practice loving all I can, with Jake, and with my friends.

The more I practice, the easier it gets. Even with my family.

Jake makes practice fun. He makes me smile a hundred times a day and not because I need him to cheer me up. Not now. No, I smile thinking of all the ways my life is better. Loving Jake makes me see that it's always worth trying. Even if I'd never met him, the possibility of something with even a fraction of what we have together is always out there. I will never shut myself away again, even if I'm sad and without him.

I will not drown again

But I can't fathom being sad while I'm with him. He's nothing but pleasure to me, and we go together so fucking well. Sometimes, when I'm getting him ready for my dick, he looks at me with such warm, open, trust, his teeth digging into his lip as my fingers slip in and out, that I forget how to breathe. I feel so fucking strong. Sometimes, when he kneels on the couch and watches me come out of the bedroom, condom in hand, he tells me to wait. He makes me stand there in my shorts, all hard and wanting, with nothing but lust on my face. But he just smiles and pants until I laugh and start to beg, my eyes on his ass the whole time. He makes me weak, too.

It's the opposite of loneliness, waking up next to Jacob, and it's the opposite of heartbreak, making him come. I like to do all of that as often as I can, because practice is important. So, it's the opposite of sadness I feel now, watching Jake joking with Carlisle as they sit in the break room at the helpline. I can hear them laughing quietly with each other before they shut the door and wait together for my shift to be over, so we can celebrate the holiday together.

It's not exactly happiness I feel as the calls come through. Christmas Eve is always such a hard time for the lonely, such a busy night for us. I still worry and wonder who might be on the other end of the line, trying to keep their head above water, but at least now I know that just by listening, I might help keep them afloat.

I take the calls and I really hope they won't be silent, but even when they are, I say the words.

"My name is Emmett. I'm listening."

And I hope that I sound kind.


End file.
